


I Am Not My Mother

by extravirginwriting



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Heavy Angst, OLD PEOPLE SUCK???, WHAT THE FUCK ELSE DO I TAG THIS AS??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extravirginwriting/pseuds/extravirginwriting
Summary: Fareeha finds the shadow of Ana hanging over her head more often than not.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roughnecked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughnecked/gifts).



> BASED OFF: http://feaqu.tumblr.com/post/150979167461/in-whick-jack-accidentally-calls-fareeha-ana
> 
> thank you to @feaqu on tumblr for letting me write this!! i love fareeha amari and would Gladly Die For Her
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT !!! AND KUDOS BUT COMMENTS > KUDOS

Fareeha skirts carefully around legacies. She’s seen the general’s sons, stomping around the camp like they own the damn place, though they’re hardly grown and just enlisted. It’s a curse to get wrapped up in the past, she thinks, cleaning her rocket launcher with her eyes set on the eldest. He’s taken to yelling at a lieutenant, demanding for a better bunk. There’s no better bunk, Fareeha knows, she’s captain and she’s got no better bunk than the freshest members of their squad.

Pride is a strange thing, at least for Fareeha. Everybody had always told her she must’ve been so proud of her mother. They always said that Ana was doing so much, Fareeha _had_ to have some inkling of the p-word lingering in her soul. Fareeha had been proud, up until she was seventeen.

When she was seventeen, she decided she wanted to enlist. That was the first explosion, the first crack in the foundation of the home that Ana and Fareeha had built together- just the two of them. Fareeha had said it at dinner, and Ana had been so furious that by the end of the forty-five minute argument, she threw her untouched plate at the wall. After that, she went on a very long walk that Fareeha could not be sure she would return from.

They spent the next few weeks in an awkward limbo state. Ana greeted her curtly, but there was yearning beneath the surface that even Fareeha could see, with her nose buried in recruitment paperwork. She held her tongue about any military business, she went to retrieve the mail before her mother could, she trained in the earliest morning hours when Ana was dead asleep. It was an expertly crafted plan, filled with elaborate ins-and-outs to keep Ana out of _her_ business.

Being a soldier was the family business. Fareeha’s parents had both been in the military, so had her grandfather, her great-grandfather, her great-great-grandfather. As long as there were Amaris, there were soldiers, hailed as the greatest warriors there could be. It had only been destiny to follow in the family legacy.

 

Jesse invites her to get coffee on a warm April day. He says he’s doing some mercenary work nearby, and had seen Fareeha’s face on a Helix recruitment poster. It had been a bizarre series of inquiries, but he finds her, stationed out of Cairo with the Raptora by her side. The Raptora is the only constant in her life anymore.

Her mother lies dead somewhere unknown, a casket buried in her memory. Jack and Gabriel are blown to smithereens in the rubble of the old HQ. The Raptora will never leave her side, unless she casts it away. Like her mother did to her, like Jack and Gabriel did to each other- but she stops at that, it’s poisonous to get caught up in ‘likes.’

Comparison is a deadly weapon, she decides, deadlier than any rocket or bullet.

The coffee house smells like early Saturdays in Fareeha’s old home. When her mother would brew the expensive beans she had brought back from the far corners of the world. Fareeha remembers the first time Ana ever let her have a sip. Almost immediately, she had spit it out, washing her mouth out with hot chocolate that Ana had brought from Russia as an extra-special treat.

Memories are equally as deadly, Fareeha decides, they’re worse than comparisons.

It’s awkward, being with Jesse after so long. He asks her questions about things she’s left in the past, she asks him questions about things he’s not yet gotten to. There’s plenty of silence between them, and none of it comfortable.

“What are you doing as… A career?” Fareeha asks. Questioning him on “work” is futile, Jesse “works” plenty. But “work” is different from a stable job, and Fareeha wants to make sure he isn’t hobbling about on the streets without a good source of money.

“Listen… I didn’t want this to get out so soon,” Jesse says, leaning close over the table, “but I’ve got a gig going with Overwatch. Not an official Overwatch, Petras an’ all that, but Winston’s got some people gettin’ together.”

The grin crossing Fareeha’s face says it all and Jesse shouts, with such finality and seriousness, “Absolutely _not_!”

“You’re not my mother. You can’t tell me what to do.” Fareeha spits back, though all the power from her retort disappears in her smile.

For Fareeha, it lacks intent as well, it’s a generic brand of response, formulated by children of proper homes. Sure, Ana could tell Fareeha what to do, but whether or not Fareeha would listen was an entirely different story.

In the ranks of Overwatch, Ana was the be-all-end-all. In the Amari home, Ana was hardly a pebble in Fareeha’s path. She wasn’t home enough to institute rules that had any meaning. Bedtimes were obeyed for the handful of days that Ana was in Egypt, and then they’d be lost. Fareeha didn’t have to respect Ana, she hadn’t given her any reason to.

The response applies fine, she figures, but does it _mean_ anything? Of course not. Fareeha knows that nothing that has the word ‘mother’ in it means anything to Fareeha. Any blanket statement- “all mothers know what’s best”- loses meaning in the face of Ana Amari.

Mother knows best goes down the drain once Fareeha picks up her pen. Ana thought she knew that Overwatch wasn’t in Fareeha’s future, but as she signs the last form, confirming that Fareeha Amari is now a certified member of Overwatch, she wonders who knows best now.

 

Winston greets her in the hangar, with a hug so tight it leaves Fareeha blue. It’s no match for Reinhardt, who cradles her for so long that Fareeha loses feelings in her legs. But she doesn’t mind, she’ll save a hug for Reinhardt any day.

Angela supplies a careful hug and “you look very well,” as opposed to Lena’s scream and smooch technique. Fareeha gets lightly tinted chapstick all over her cheek, but it doesn’t matter with Lena blinking in circles about her, demanding to know how the trip was, if Egypt is any good for a holiday, if she’s been traveling.

It’s all a blur, literally, and Fareeha begins to answer with very simple “yes” and “no” responses, not knowing if they hold any truth. She can’t even follow Lena, feeling too much like she’s back to being a child, running around the base looking for Jesse or Reinhardt.

She’s lost in the fantasy of going back to childhood. Back to Gabriel’s arms, to Jack’s well-meaning scolding, to Reinhardt’s baking, to her mother’s careful touch. It’s all back, and Fareeha’s head is swimming with words and feelings, things she’s been so careful to bury with that empty casket.

Everything disappears into the blur of motion running through Fareeha’s brain. She feels whisked away to the old days of Overwatch, met with Gabriel’s handmade sweaters and Jack’s playful teasing, Reinhardt’s baking and Winston’s late night snack deliveries, and Ana’s touch, again. Fareeha feels her mother combing through her hair, braiding with nimble fingers, trained carefully by a career reliant on them. She feels her mother crying into her shoulder after someone’s been lost, she feels her mother’s perfume giving her a rash, she feels her mother’s hands over hers, passing her a mug of cocoa.

All of it is felt, and none of it processed, crawling from the grave with a newfound fury. Truly, these feelings are zombies to Fareeha, crawling towards her to eat her alive. She’s suddenly unsteady, her breathing harder. Lena tries to ask if everything’s okay, but it’s not, but the words don’t vocalize and it just comes out as an awkward, mangled sob.

Winston takes her to her new quarters, a hand-me-down from the late Ana Amari. The second he mentions the name, it all hurts worse. Now, the tears are worse, drowning out her vision and leaving her seeing everything through the blur she feels in her mind.

She asks for a moment alone, and even though Winston seems hesitant to leave her in this state, he does.

There’s several moments of silence, but the silence isn’t even silent- it’s full of laughter from back then, singing, crying, victory calls. Fareeha starts humming, trying to block it all out without making anybody else worry about her being unstable. They’ll send her right back home, and then what will her mother think?

Probably “good.” She’ll probably celebrate with Morrison and Reyes, break out angelic champagne and let all of Paradise know that her daughter has finally done her right.

Fareeha feels sick at the thought. She begins to dress the bed- double, reserved for high ranking officers. She doesn’t deserve the bed, she hasn’t worked for it, it’s a stupid hand-me-down based on the stupid legacy. Still, Fareeha dresses it.

 

It takes her a month and a half to get settled, but she gets settled. Winston announces that somebody’ll be joining them, right as Fareeha has started to get into the groove of Overwatch. That night, they gather up in the hangar, and await their newest transplant.

He’s masked, and maybe that’s why he sounds so gruff, but even with a mask obscuring his words, Fareeha can recognize that voice. She decides to say a brief introduction to “Soldier: 76”, and she immediately runs off to her room.

She probably shouldn’t be alone, Fareeha thinks, but she needs to be alone. Being with him is the alternative, and she can’t do that. To immerse herself in that den of lies, it makes her feel sick. God, how had she not put the pieces together earlier? No body found, and strokes of good luck befalling her, now clearly of human creation, not divine intervention.

The whole thing is setting her on fire, mentally, physically, emotionally. It all _burns_ like a hot, hot sun and she can’t cool down. She doesn’t want to cool down, maybe. It’s certainly a thought, one of many running about in her head. But it doesn’t make sense to her. Logically, she should want to be calm, but dammit, she wants to be mad.

Her past six years are unraveling, everything is suddenly being questioned. Who else is alive? Who else has had the audacity to fake their death? Who else is going to march into her life and pretend like it’s no problem? Who else is going to mask themselves to hide from the shame they _have_ to feel?

A knock at the door lights another fire, and Fareeha feels her fists clench. She wants to punch something, she wants to break something, she wants to set this whole room on fire and destroy it with her bare fucking hands- but she opens the door instead.

The mask is off.

Jack Morrison is sauntering back into her life with no hesitation and no remorse, and Fareeha feels disgusted. How _dare_ he? How can he do this to her? How can he hurt her like this and pretend that nothing has happened? There’s no hug, there’s no meaningful moment together, all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

Well, shit, now that he’s apologized so meaningfully, why don’t they go ahead and kumbaya it out?

The apology is what breaks Fareeha, it sends her yelling and screaming and crying, punching the wall and kicking the dresser. Her hand hurts, something’s _broken_ , but everything else is broken, so why doesn’t it just go join the rest of it all?

She’s swearing, somebody has her wrist in their hand, but she throws them off, rounding on Jack once again and screeching with all of her fury, a mighty and loud, “Fuck you!”

Fareeha wants to collapse, because she’s _so_ tired now. But there’s a million reasons not to fall asleep, and she’s intent on following up on all of them. Somebody leads her off to bed as Jack leaves the room, not even looking back, the goddamn bastard. Lena is in her face, asking if she’s okay, and Fareeha doesn’t respond.

It takes her approximately a minute to wrestle with herself as to whether or not she should follow Jack out and _really_ fight him. Her brain decides it’s a good choice, but Lena will stop her. So instead, she pulls off her shirt, unclasps her bra, and collapses into bed, trying to wriggle her jeans off.

 

A week goes by in which nothing is normal, but everything tries to be. Jack sees Fareeha in the kitchen and won’t come in. Like a vampire, he needs an invitation, and Fareeha is not prepared to grant him one. Fareeha sees Jack exercising on her favorite equipment, and she wipes it down with Lysol before setting foot on it again. There’s a rhythm to it now, non-harmonious, but a rhythm nonetheless.

 

Once a month, they have dinner together, as a team. Winston started it, and Fareeha has to admit, it’s a fun tradition. Except for the part where everybody tries to get Fareeha to work out her differences with Jack, forcing them across from each other, despite Fareeha’s protestation. Angela won’t pass her the butter, so she has to ask Jack. Jesse “doesn’t hear her” when she asks for an extra napkin. They’ve masterminded this whole situation, and Fareeha’ll be damned if they don’t deal with the repercussions.

She spends dinner stewing, thinking about how badly she wants to tell them all off. Normally, she’d have wisened up by now, realized how irrational she’s been, and immediately apologized. But she hasn’t been irrational. If he’s going to disappear and make everyone grieve and mourn for a man who deserves none of it, then she can at least emotionally leave him.

Somebody encourages him, Fareeha can’t think he’s done this of his own volition. He asks her, “How’s your suit flying?”

Fareeha quirks a brow, then turns back to her food. After that, they stop encouraging him.

That means he says _it_ from his own brain. He sits there, thinks it over, and says it. He looks at Fareeha, and says, “Don’t you think the salad is good, Ana?”

Ana doesn’t respond, because Ana isn’t here, but Fareeha is. Stunned silence settles over the dining hall, and Fareeha is tempted to _look_ for Ana. She wants him to feel the same intensity in his shame that she feels in her anger. It’s boiling, bubbling, threatening to overflow, but Fareeha is silent. Her jaw sets and her shoulders square, but she has nothing to say. There’s no words that can be said to this.

“An- Fareeha, I…” He trails off, he won’t even dare to say a simple sorry. Fareeha feels insulted, how can he let her mother’s name come off his tongue like that, but he can’t apologize to her for it? Jack, who has faked his death, refuses to honor a woman who actually _has_ passed, and won’t give her daughter any of the respect he’s taken from her.

“I am _not_ my mother.” She spits, the syllables strangled in her throat and tearing her vocal chords up with the start of teariness. If she were anywhere else, she would sob. She would trace that tattoo that dips onto the high planes of her cheek, and she would cry until the tears followed the ink and drowned it out.

Nobody says a word. Lena doesn’t come forward with comfort, Winston doesn’t suggest a few moments alone. They all let her rise from her chair, shoulders square, jaw set, tears manifesting in her eyes. Fareeha walks out, but she’s clumsy and tumbling because she can hardly see straight. It feels like junior high, running from the lunchroom after Azima had teased her for not having a father or a real mother one too many times.

She’s alone, stumbling back to her room with gasping sobs hiding in her chest. The second the door closes, it’s all freed. She’s howling like she did when she first got the news from Reyes. Ana is dead, and she can’t even bury her. The base lets her live, and that’s not what Fareeha needs. Fareeha wants the casket closed, she wants it all to be done with.

But nobody here will let Ana die. They resurrect her, everybody commenting on how alike they look- Fareeha can’t stand to let her mother’s soul live on through her. Ana can live in this room, in the books she left behind, in her medals, in her legacy, but Fareeha would rather join Ana in Paradise than let her mother live on in her.

Fareeha lies sprawled out on her mattress, sobbing until the sun rises again in the sky. She rolls out of bed for a prayer, and afterwards, she wanders her room bitterly. There’s a mission at four, but that’s far enough off that she can sleep until it comes around.

The second Fareeha closes her eyes, Ana is staring at her. Just staring, not saying anything, her expression blank. She demands no kindness to Jack, she demands no anger to Jack, she simply stares, a reminder to Fareeha that she will never leave. Fareeha lets it happen, she keeps her eyes shut, follows the shape of her mother’s tattoo, her nose- the one they share- her eyes- another common feature. It’s all there, the face that Fareeha had thought she had lost in her mind.

As Fareeha drifts off, Ana stops staring. She disappears entirely, leaving Fareeha staring into an endless void. But the void becomes a sea of bones and bodies, and Fareeha doesn’t want to stare anymore. Death has never scared her, it’s been sort of a comforting thought. No matter what happens, there’s some stability in the end. In the end, she’ll be with her mother. Maybe she’ll even get a chance to meet her father.

These bodies scare her, because they are unfamiliar. Fareeha has read up on dreams, you can only see faces that you’ve seen before in dreams. Your mind can’t just generate new ones out of thin air. But the bodies are foreign. Ana is not amongst them, and that startles Fareeha. She wades through them, turning them over, digging in them to try and find them both. As the dream stretches on, the search grows more frantic. Limbs fall off as she yanks them from piles, desperate to find them for some sort of weird and divine confirmation.

She sees enemies, friends, lovers, coworkers- but dammit, where’s her mother? If seeing Ana’s body is confirmation, then what’s her absence? A sign that everything that’s happened in the past seven years is a lie?

 

Fareeha wakes up, her whole body in a state of discomfort. Everything feels off-balance, and it’s not right. She stands up, shakily, and dares to wander out into the hallway. It’s abandoned, per usual, with none of the lights on.

If she goes to Angela, she can get a couple of anxiety pills, and it’ll all settle down. But she continues down the hall, wanting to confront the source of this whole thing. She walks into the common area, finds nothing, and goes to the kitchen. Nothing there for her, so she turns and leaves the Watchpoint, tiptoeing like a drunken giraffe along the rocky cliffside to a small clearing, free of the concrete that the building is made of, but obscured by scrap metal and ruined weaponry. Fareeha knows he’s here, this is where Jack and her mother used to play cards. They thought nobody knew about it, but she had a month or two in which she thought her mother had been smoking after Ana said she’d quit, so Fareeha followed her every move to ensure it.

The wind is blowing and Fareeha is frigid, but she won’t stand down. Everything is right, the clouds rolling in behind her, the ocean is spraying, it’s all the perfect moment for a confrontation. Her hands are shaking as the first syllables tumble off her tongue. She works at explaining everything that she’s felt since he said _that_ , but it’s struggling to come to the surface.

Probably, the wind is drowning her out, but she’s not entirely sure if it matters anymore. She’s just talking, staring him down, watching him stare at her like she’s got five heads and a hand coming out of her chest. But dammit, she’s going to talk.

After what feels like eternity (only fifteen minutes), Fareeha stops for breath, and Jack speaks. She really wasn’t done, but she’ll let him try and defend himself. It’s fine, she can give him his moment to speak his piece, then she’ll go back and tear him to shreds again.

“I’ve been in contact with your mother.”


End file.
